Rise
by macrauchenia
Summary: A collection of drabbles and oneshots dealing with the NolanVerse Batman, set during and after the events of The Dark Knight Rises. Current Prompt: Hothead - An unexpected source finally teaches John the true meaning of the word "hothead."
1. Children

**Title of Prompt:** Children  
**Summary of Prompt: **After a friend is injured, Commissioner Gordon starts to think about Gotham's greatest asset and weakness. And things he just can't change.  
**Rating: **K+ (_very _light swearing)  
**Timeframe/Info About This Fic: **During the long winter under Bane's control; No major spoilers for TDKR!  
**Disclaimer:** I do not own any single part of the Batman Begins/Dark Knight franchise. It all belongs to the glorious and amazing Christopher Nolan.  
**Authors Note: **So, after seeing the single greatest movie in history (The Dark Knight Rises, for those of you like me who _aren't_ detectives xD), so many little feels and plot bunnies filled my head. I'll just post them in this collection of drabbles and oneshots...and hopefully you guys will enjoy them :D

* * *

When a loud banging sounded at Commissioner Gordon's door late at night, the salt and ginger hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. The older man glanced at the clock barely hanging on his wall and frowned deeper. It was well past eleven, well past the unofficial curfew Bane had set in order to establish "order" in his new anarchy. Gordon was half tempted to ignore the visitor and hope for the best. Maybe they would go away.

_What the hell could they possibly even want at this time?_ the commissioner asked himself. "Trouble, no doubt," he added under his breath. "Or bad news." The worst case scenario even ran through his mind, chilling him more than the cold Gotham snow ever could. "Do _they_ know I'm here?" _They _referring to Bane's cronies.

Gordon shook his head, tossing out this suggestion. "If Bane found me, he wouldn't knock on the door. He'd 'arrest,'" the ill-used word made Gordon chuckle darkly, "me in public. Make sure others saw. Make me an example." However, knowing that it wasn't Bane at the door didn't make Gordon feel much better.

Loud banging noises echoed through the small room again. Whoever was at the door was growing impatient. Still fighting back his feelings of unease, Gordon replaced the cracked mug in his hand with his trusty gun. After unlocking all of the various deadbolts and locks that secured his door, Gordon slowly pulled open the creaking door, gun barrel pointing directly at his visitor.

Although it was nearly pitch black outside, the commissioner could tell that his visitor was a stranger who was younger than him, perhaps by a decade or so. The younger man's eyes were concealed in the darkness, as was most of his face. However, in the dim light from Gordon's cracked door, the commissioner could tell his visitor had a grim smile on his face. He did not flinch or shy away from the gun. People were constantly having guns pulled on them in Gotham.

"Commissioner Gordon?" The man's voice was low and cautious. There was a motion in the dark that looked like he was glancing from side to side. Gordon knew why; if anyone was caught with him, they'd be in just as much danger as the former commissioner. If the man was afraid of being caught, that meant they had a common enemy—Bane. This still did little to calm Gordon's nerves. His decades on the service didn't just teach him how to load and shoot a gun; it taught him to trust his gut, and his gut felt like it was on a holey boat in the middle of a storm.

"Son?" His voice was just as quiet and careful. "Do you need something?"

Again, there was a flurry of motion in the darkness. Gordon guessed it was the younger man shaking his head. "No…but he might."

For the first time, Gordon finally realized there was something in the man's arms. "Well, son, if your friend is hurt, you should probably take him to the nearest safehouse. Sorry to say…this isn't a safehouse."

"I don't know him, sir." The stranger grunted as he fished in his pocket for something. He was still holding whoever it was in the crooks of his elbows. Gordon stared at the visitor for a moment, trying to understand what was going on. A complete stranger had come up to him in the middle of the night to get help for some who the _stranger_ didn't even know. Either something was really wrong, or Bane's attempt to create hell on earth was really bonding the citizens of Gotham closer.

"You don't know him?" Gordon frowned.

Finally the man found what he was looking for. He held the elusive item in his closed fist and offered it to Gordon. "No, but I think he's one of yours." He dropped the item in Gordon's outstretched hand.

Gordon stared at the white stick of chalk that rolled slightly in his palm, covering the sides of his hand in white powder. His stomach clenched painfully, much more than the typical burn of hunger or anger. Gordon ran his tongue across his suddenly dry mouth, trying to moisten it enough to speak.

"Bring him in," Gordon commanded, pulling open the rest of his door and ushering the visitor inside. Gordon stood guard briefly at the door, scanning the darkness for a trap before disappearing back in his house. Gordon's visitor had already laid the injured man on the closest table and was itching to go. The middle-aged man kept eyeing the door nervously and shifting on his feet. However, he did not leave yet.

Gordon rushed over to the young man on the table and cursed under his breath. He was unconscious, but breathing normally. Dried blood was crusted on his face, and a large purple bruise had already started to swell on his forehead. It stretched from his left eyebrow to his left temple, and if Gordon squinted, he could see brown and yellow also rising from the nasty bruise. _Dammit, Blake! What did you do?_

"What happened?" Gordon's question came out more violent than he had wanted it to. The visitor who had brought him Blake did not flinch, though. Emotions were constantly running high in Gotham; rarely did tone of voice ever cause panic, unless the words accompanied with it were horrible.

The stranger cleared his throat. "I left my son alone with his friend for a minute to talk to a former coworker. I thought they'd be okay. When I came back, some monster," the man's voice shook slightly, "had tried to…I don't even know what that piece of trash was wanting to do with my son." The stranger stopped and took a deep breath. "I just remember coming back and seeing Richie and Jason sitting there with blood on their hands and he," he nodded towards the peacefully sleeping John, "was unconscious. They told me he came out of nowhere and got rid of that monster. I don't know who he is, but he saved my boy. I saw the chalk and figured he's one of yours."

Gordon's throat was unnaturally tight due to the man's story. He nodded once and forced a smile on his pale, worried face. "Thank you for bringing him here. I'll take good care of him. You did the right thing, son." He reached over to shake the younger man's hand.

The man looked visibly relieved. For the first time, Gordon was able to study the man who had brought Blake back. As he originally thought, the man was probably in his thirties or late twenties. He wasn't the strongest man, but Gordon could tell he was eating well, which was lucky since he wouldn't have been able to carry Blake if he was weak. Although the new Gotham had aged that man's face years ahead of its time, he still had a friendly and hopeful look to him. _No doubt his family is keeping him a decent man._ Gordon swallowed painfully and thanked the man again. With no reason for him to stay, the younger man cast one last thankful look at the unconscious Blake and slipped back out in the dark. Like so many people in this hell called Gotham, Commissioner Gordon never saw him again.

The entire ordeal had been very emotionally taxing on Gordon. Certain things that the man said reminded him of his own separated family. Although he knew his wife and kids were far better away from Gotham, away from him, he wished they were with him now. _Somehow_, the man believed, _they would keep me decent too._

Gordon sighed and made his way back slowly to the sleeping man on his table. Like his first scan of the injured young man had suggested, John was relatively okay. The bump on his head was his only wound. The blood apparently came from the thug John had saved the kids from. _Good for you, kid._ Gordon scooped the young man up, careful not to jostle his head, and moved him towards the softer couch. John was lighter than Gordon expected, his light weight causing the older man to actually frown. It looked as if Blake hadn't had a decent meal since the start of Bane's reckoning. The commissioner had seen Blake on numerous occasions pass off "extra" food to hungry kids, but Gordon briefly wondered how much of this food was really "extra" and how often John went without meals.

_Bane isn't freeing us…he's killing us. Turning us into monsters and starving our children. But he's also uniting us. _There was a common bond all three of them—Blake, Gordon, and his strange visitor—had: children. It was obvious that all three would continue to go through hell to protect the youth of Gotham. Gordon studied the sleeping young man on the couch and was hit with a startling realization. _He can't even be more than twenty. Blake's still a child himself._

_He'd be about the same age as my Barbara. She'd be just a child in this horrible place as well. What would it do to her? Would she still be my little Barbara? _Gordon continued to stare down at his partner, although he wasn't thinking about Blake anymore. His vision became uncomfortably blurry as he thought more about his lost daughter. He hoped she would be safe and happy in her new home. He hoped she'd think about him, but only remember the good memories. He hoped she would find someone—_someone nice like Blake,_ Gordon grudgingly admitted—who would keep her from growing up hard and cold like the children in Gotham. His little Barbara deserved to stay a carefree child forever.

This new Gotham certainly was not the place for children. It made them grow up too fast.

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**Hopefully that wasn't _too_ bad. Please leave feedback on what you liked and what you didn't like. Also, if you guys want, you can leave suggestions or characters that you want to see in the next couple of drabbles. I'm accommodating :D Thank you so much for reading!**


	2. Hothead

**Title of Prompt:** Hothead  
**Summary of Prompt: **An unexpected source finally teaches John the true meaning of the word "hothead."  
**Rating: **K  
**Timeframe/Info About This Fic: **Directly after TDKR; Spoilers! Why are you even reading this if you haven't seen the movie!?  
**Disclaimer:** I do not own any single part of the Batman Begins/Dark Knight franchise. It all belongs to the glorious and amazing Christopher Nolan.  
**Authors Note: **Err... I've had this idea for a long time. Hopefully you guys don't hate it like I do .

* * *

Though it was mandatory in the past, it was no longer obligatory for a member of the force to attend the funeral of a fellow officer. As expected, there were many funerals for police officers, but very few showed up to mourn. Many officers would sacrifice their last goodbyes to even their most trusted friends of twenty years just to take back one more stolen moment with their families.

He had been attending funerals for almost two weeks. Even though all John wanted to do was pretend that hundreds of his brothers-in-arms hadn't been slaughtered, and Bane never changed his life forever, he forced himself to be at every single burial. He even went to funerals where he didn't even know the deceased. He felt like he had to, when so few were honoring these fallen heroes. Every time an officer was lowered into the cold ground, bile rose in John's throat, and the world seemed to tip. After the first fifty, he had started to lose count of how many funerals he had attended. All he knew was that too many good men and women had died.

After some time, John felt that he couldn't take one more funeral. It was slowly driving him insane inside. However, John Blake decided to swallow his burning anger and sick stomach in order to attend one last funeral. Although they weren't close (far from it, actually), John felt that this fallen hero deserved a greater honor than most.

Fittingly, it was raining at the funeral of Peter Foley. John didn't concentrate on the other people who attended; instead he just stared blankly at the dark mahogany coffin that held one of his superior officers. Rain streamed down his face, making it look like John was crying. Internally though, the rookie cop wasn't nearly as broken up as he appeared. Although he greatly respected the deputy commissioner's courage at the end, it wasn't enough to cover up John's dislike for the older man's constant treatment of him. John had lost count from just the first week of police training on how many times Foley had called him a "hothead." It wasn't as if the insult had bothered him…it just made John mad the way Foley said it. He always added a sneer at the end, as if Foley thought the "hothead" would amount to nothing.

John shoved his hands further into his pockets. _Look where we are now,_ he thought. _I'm alive…and you're dead._ This rather heartless thought made John feel suddenly guilty. Desperate to not disrespect the dead at the dead's own _funeral_, John searched the graveyard for ways to make amends. He spotted a woman dressed in black standing next to two sobbing children. John's throat tightened painfully. At least if he had died, no one would miss him. _It doesn't seem fair to leave behind a wife and kids. _He made his way slowly towards the three mourners.

"Mrs. Foley," Blake tilted his head. "I'm sorry for your loss. Deputy Commissioner Foley was a very brave man," he murmured softly.

Foley's widow jumped, evidently torn from her own private thoughts. Her eyes, which were ruined from her tears, narrowed dangerously. "_You." _The venomous word shocked John. "You were with Gordon when he tried to convince Peter to come back and fight." Her two children stared at John accusingly, but they did not say a word. "You and Gordon _killed_ him!" Her voice broke and the woman lapsed into a sobbing mess. John stood there awkwardly, regretting his decision to try to comfort Foley's family. After some time, Mrs. Foley recovered. She wiped her eyes with a black handkerchief. "I'm sorry," she whispered hoarsely. "This has just been really hard on us. Thank you for your kind words, Mr. um…"

"Blake," John supplied. "John Blake."

Surprisingly, his name brought forth a reaction from the widow. She looked vaguely confused and shocked. "John Blake?" John nodded once, unsure of what was going on. "Peter left you a letter…" she started. "Right before he left to...fight. He told me to find you if…" The woman was having trouble finishing her sentences. She tried unsuccessfully to cover up her tears by reaching into her bag and pulling out a folded letter. Sensing he was now causing more grief than good, John accepted the letter with a "thanks" and left. He pushed the letter in his pocket and didn't think once more about it.

* * *

It was nearly a week before John remembered the letter that Foley had written to him, of all people. Fumbling through all of his pockets, John hoped that he hadn't thrown out the letter by accident. With a triumphant grin, he finally found the letter and settled in the nearest chair. He opened it up, unsure of what he was about to read.

_Hothead._

John grimaced. He thought he would finally be rid of that phrase. If that was the first word in the note, John had a feeling he'd see the seven letter abomination again. Sighing, he forced himself to keep reading.

_That's what you were, Blake. You were arrogant and rash. Every single situation you were in, your impulsive actions and attitude nearly cost you your job or your life. _Blake's expression became slightly strained as he was reading the letter. This wasn't what he was expecting. It seemed like Foley just wanted to get in one last insult. Blake rolled his eyes. Was he really expecting some words of wisdom from this letter anyway?

_And if you thought that I wanted you to be fired…_ It was obvious that Foley clearly did not like the rookie. _Well, then, you'd be wrong._

Clearly there was a mistake in this letter. John blinked and reread the sentence. _Foley _didn't_ want me fired? _He shook his head and continued reading, interested despite himself.

_For some reason, you reminded me of myself when I was a rookie. A hotheaded rookie, might I add. _John was having a hard time grasping what he was reading. He had always thought that Foley had been a haughty, calculating man who placed honor above all else. Finding out that Foley and he shared a trait, _hotheadedness_ of all things, was truly shocking. And a bit weird.

_I know I criticized you for being a hothead, but that was to keep you from "cooling off." Even though you were rash, it kept you and others alive. If you had followed orders like everyone else, Gordon would have been just another body washed up in the sewers. _

John frowned. Somehow Foley's words were making sense. After Gordon went missing in the tunnels, no one else but him wanted to go down the hole. To not disobey orders, John had to come up with another idea—and it ended up saving the Commissioner's life.

_I even goaded you into dropping your badge. You and I both know that Gordon wouldn't have listened to me if I suggested putting you somewhere else. But he did hear my words, and he did make you a detective. Since you didn't spend months buried in the tunnels, I'd say it worked. You and your hot head helped out hundreds of people, while the others who followed orders remained trapped. _

Again, John could recall the exact moment in Gordon's hospital room when he dropped his police badge. He had been so angrily blinded by Foley's words, that he hadn't realized what it would lead to. John swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. How did Foley know this much about him? Was John that much of an open book? Were others able to play him just as easily? Now feeling very uneasy, he ventured further into the letter.

_When I was your age, fresh out of the academy, I was just as much of a hothead. Maybe I was an even greater one. Every unfair order from my superiors was questioned, and I nearly lost my head, literally, many times for rushing too fast into things. Like Gordon has his instincts, I had my stubbornness. And even though it cost me, I know it kept me alert and alive. More often than not, I was stuck doing desk work instead of being on the streets. I'm positive my superiors hated me more than anything. Once I was elevated to a higher position, I had to bury my attitude, or I would have surely lost my job. When you first appeared in uniform, fresh-faced and ready to take on the world, I thought you'd just be another arrogant rookie. I realized I was wrong when your first arrest nearly got you killed…but you saved your partner and a civilian. Instead of waiting for backup, you just rashly charged on in, not caring about the risks. _

A ghostlike smile flickered across John's lips. There had been no way he would have let some thug kill Ross or that innocent woman. It wasn't until after the whole ordeal was over, and he was banished to a desk job for a month, did John actually grasp the fact that he had broken about sixteen rules in the process.

_I didn't realize I had lost my own "hotheadedness" until Gordon and you came to my house and tried to get me to fight Bane. Elevated positions and social parties had made me weak and a coward. I don't care if you tell Gordon this, but he was right. I needed to be with the people of Gotham to help them through this time—not hiding in my home. And when I saw you standing next to Gordon, ready to fight to the death, I knew what I had to do. _

There seemed to be a sharp prickle on the lids of John's eyes. For the first time, he was finally starting to understand Foley, the man who had found every fault in him to criticize. Foley never hated him; Foley just hated that fact that John reminded him of what he used to be.

_And since you're reading this, you've probably already attended my funeral and Gotham is hopefully free. Even if Bane is still in control, at least I won. This will sound like stupid advice, especially coming from me, but keep your head hot. Even though it won't make you popular with your superiors, which I don't have to explain to you, Blake, it'll keep you alive. It'll either keep you alive…or you._

There was nothing else added to the letter. John flipped it over, trying to find the back or another page, but that was it. He sank further into his seat, his pent-up breath coming out in a deep sigh. For so long he had hated Foley. He had hated the word hothead and every insult the older officer had thrown to rile him up. He still wanted to hate Foley for using him, but now that he understood _why,_ things were suddenly so complicated. John folded the letter in half, and it slipped from his loose fingers.

The young man rubbed his face and closed his eyes. Perhaps things would have been easier if he had never read Foley's letter, and "hothead" was still an insult.

* * *

**So, ever since watching TDKR for the fifth time, I've always wonder why Foley _always_ called John "hothead." And, now, well, we're stuck with this. I'msosorryit'ssobadanditmakesnosense!  
Special thanks to everyone who has favorited and reviewed! :D I really appreciate it!  
**To DarthZ - John is my favorite too. Definitely expect more from him! This whole collection will probably focus on him.  
To Murkydew - I'm really glad you liked this! And thanks for teaching me a new word xD


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